


Tour of Europe

by scrollgirl



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Earth, First Time, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-12
Updated: 2009-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/pseuds/scrollgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron Mitchell and John Sheppard feel an instant attraction the first time they meet, but that's not always enough to build a connection. In this AU, John never joined the Air Force, although Cam's career unfolded exactly as it did in canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/profile)[**comment_fic**](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/) using [](http://gaffsie.livejournal.com/profile)[**gaffsie**](http://gaffsie.livejournal.com/)'s prompt: _[SGA/SG1, John/Cam, the AU where John's a civilian](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/75615.html?thread=17505631#t17505631)_.

They don't meet during basic training, or flight school. They don't meet in the skies over Afghanistan, or on the Antarctic ice sheets. They don't meet deep in the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, or in an Ancient city in a galaxy far, far away. They don't meet when John's still in the closet and suffocating under the expectations of his business mogul father and his country club wife. They don't meet when "don't ask, don't tell" is a burden Cam still has to bear for the sake of duty, despite the atmosphere of acceptance in the SGC.

They first cross paths in August 2009, in the London Underground, of all places, while John's on "sabbatical" from Sheppard Enterprises and Cam's on his first real vacation in almost seven years.

The original plan was for Cam and his brother Casey to take leave at the same time and go backpacking through Europe. That plan changed when Cam's sister-in-law Susanna lost her job and money got tight. It's nobody's fault the economy is still in a slump, and rescheduling the trip wasn't feasible. Cam convinces himself he's going to have a great time, regardless--Mitchells make their own fun wherever they go.

John doesn't have an itinerary. He was in Malta last week and he might be in Denmark next week. His father thinks he's in New York. John wants to walk by the Thames and maybe ride the London Eye, but that's the extent of his travel plans.

Coming out of Westminster station, something flutters out of the folds of John's jacket as he pulls it on and Cam, walking a few steps behind him, picks it up from the ground. It's a faded photo of a pretty, dark-haired woman wearing a brown leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, standing next to a blue and white Cessna.

Cam tries to chase after the guy who dropped the photo, but he disappears too quickly into the crowd. Hopping up onto a planter, Cam scans the area for dark hair and aviator sunglasses, but the guy is gone. He flips over the photo and finds writing on the back:  Kathleen Sheppard, Palo Alto, 1968.

His cell phone doesn't have the bells and whistles of Vala's iPhone, but it does have overseas roaming. He calls up Daniel in his office at the SGC and asks for a favour, mostly because he figures the woman in the photo must be the guy's mother, from the brief glimpse he got of his face, and no one should ever lose a photo of their mom.

Daniel promises to call back with the information, so Cam tucks the picture into his wallet for safe-keeping and puts the incident out of his mind. Five hours later, as he's listening to the tour guide expound on the history of the Globe Theatre, his phone buzzes with a text message from Vala.

The guy, John Sheppard, is staying at a luxury hotel on Piccadilly, so Cam gets on the Tube at Southwark and heads west to Green Park. He considers simply leaving the photo with the concierge, because stalking a guy he's never met while in a foreign country is bad enough without introducing himself and explaining how he enlisted an archaeologist and an alien to help track him down through his credit card.

But then he spies Sheppard--or a dark-haired guy wearing the same jacket and aviator sunglasses--exit the hotel and cross the street to enter the park on the south side of Piccadilly, and some instinct urges him to follow. Sheppard's trudging along the path not far ahead, hands in his pockets, head down, oblivious to Cam calling his name. Jogging the last few steps, Cam pulls even with him and sees that he's got earbuds on.

Sheppard turns off his music when he realises Cam is trying to talk to him, and pushes his aviators to sit on the top of his head. "Sorry about that. Did you say something?"

Wishing he'd thought this through more, Cam holds out the photo, smiling awkwardly. "You dropped this earlier, outside Westminster station." He's nervous, not sure why, except that John Sheppard is a good-looking guy about his age, with hazel eyes and a wide mouth--and he's pinging Cam's gaydar like crazy.

Sheppard's polite smile drops away when he sees the photo, replaced with astonishment. "Oh, thank God," he murmurs, staring down at it, his fingertips tracing reverently over his mom's face. "I thought it was gone for good." He looks up at Cam and laughs, happy and relieved. "Thank you so much. You're _amazing_."

"Not really," says Cam, grinning. "I'm just glad I could help."

But John takes a step closer, close enough for Cam to see the flecks of green in his eyes. "Are you kidding? This is the only photo I have left of my mom with her plane. I've been so pissed with myself for losing it." He puts a hand on Cam's arm. "Seriously, thank you."

While Cam manages to bite down the "aww, shucks" that wants to spill out, he can't help blushing bright red at John's gratitude. But before he can open his mouth and make an utter fool of himself, John tips his head and asks, curious, "Hey, how'd you even find me?"

"I, uh," he stammers, and flails for a story that doesn't involve the misuse of government resources. He can't think of one. "You probably don't want to know," he says, finally, and winces at John's confused frown. Yeah. Time for a tactical retreat. "Anyway, I'm glad I could get that back to you."

"No, please," John says quickly, catching Cam's elbow when he turns to go. "At least let me buy you a drink." He glides warm fingers down Cam's forearm to circle his wrist, smiling slow and sultry, his eyes dark with invitation. "Show you how grateful I am."

Pulled in like a sailor to the siren's song, Cam sways forward helplessly. "That's not why I did it," he tries to protest, breath hitching audibly when John presses his other hand low on Cam's belly. "Oh," he gasps, startled and turned on. "You, uh, you don't have to--"

"Sure I do," John whispers, leaning up against him, so close that his mouth brush against Cam's ear. His tongue and teeth come out to tease until Cam moans, his knees going weak. "I owe you, right?" John's hand drops lower, to trace the inseam of Cam's jeans. "Anything you want," he promises, and drags his lips over Cam's cheek to his mouth.

Cam welcomes him in, melting into the kiss, hungry and desperate for John's tongue in his mouth. When John pulls back to breathe, he chases after him. "_Please_," he says, rough, wanting more. "Kiss me." He clings to John's shoulders, shuddering when John cups him through his jeans. Cam grabs his hand, seconds away from coming. "John, wait--"

Abruptly John releases him and steps back. "You know my name." His voice is cold and he doesn't seem very surprised, or aroused. His mouth is red and bruised, but there's no softness to it at all. "Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want," he spits out. "You want money? Is that it?"

He's been played, Cam realises. Like a rank amateur, he's been played. He suddenly remembers where he is--in a public park in the middle of London, with joggers and cyclists passing behind them on the path, a bunch of kids kicking around a soccer ball not that far in the distance. It's a bucket of ice right in his lap.

Cam has travelled to other galaxies and not felt so far away from home as he does in this moment. There's no Teal'c or Sam to back him up, no Daniel or Vala to watch his six. He wants his team. He wants his P-90. He wants to be anywhere but here.

"I want to know who you are," John demands, pulling out his cell phone. "Or I'm calling the cops."

Any other day, Cam would be more than willing to call his bluff, but he wants out of this conversation as fast as possible. "Cameron Mitchell. I'm a colonel in the Air Force." He grinds the words out, matching John glare for glare. "You don't have to call the cops, okay? I don't want anything from you. I was just trying to help. I don't want money, I don't want anything--" He cuts himself off. Sheppard doesn't believe him, he can see it on his face. "Forget it. Think whatever you want."

He stalks off, not quite at a run, but pretty damn close. His face is burning with humiliation and it's a struggle not to turn around and give Sheppard the black eye he deserves, the cold-hearted bastard. This is why Cam needs to stick with women, because apparently his taste in men _sucks_. What the hell was he thinking? That some hot guy he met for all of five minutes actually wanted to have sex with him to say thanks for giving back his photo? Seriously, how stupid can he get?

He breaks into a run once he's out of sight of the park, and he runs and doesn't stop for anything except traffic until he arrives at his hotel in Soho. He has a choice now--find a bar and get drunk, or keep running. It's not a difficult decision, and Cam quickly changes into shorts and a t-shirt before heading out again, this time north towards Regent's Park. He's careful on the sidewalks not to knock over pedestrians, and remembers to look to the right instead of the left for cars making turns. Once he hits the running path around the park, he pours on the speed, imagining that Jolan is somewhere beside him, pacing him, ready to knock him off his feet if he slows down for even a second. He makes one loop around the park, not ready to commit to a second loop when he's supposed to be on vacation, then heads back for the hotel.

There are more people on the streets now with the offices let out for the day, so he slows to a walk and finally allows himself to think. Finally allows himself to admit how much he'd liked John's smile and his laugh and his pretty hazel eyes and his clever hands and his scorching hot kisses, admit that he would've followed John back to his hotel for whatever he was offering, no questions asked, because he'd been smitten almost instantly. It hurt to be toyed with like that, to realise John was never interested in him. To know that, when Cam was begging John to kiss him, John was thinking Cam was a creep who wanted sex or money--or both--as some kind of reward.

He's exhausted, wrung out, in desperate need of a shower and a hot meal, but considering the way his day is going, _of course_ John Sheppard is waiting for him outside the hotel. "Now who's the stalker," he mutters under his breath. He almost blows right past him, but it's tit for tat, a voice in his head that sounds disturbingly like his mother tells him. He stops a good six feet away.

"Colonel Mitchell?" John takes a step forward, and Cam takes a step back.

"What," he says, staring past the other man's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," says John in a rush, voice low. "I'm sorry. You gave me back my mom's picture and I treated you like you were some kind of criminal. You didn't deserve that."

Cam has to agree there. "I'll get over it." He's pretty sure it'll happen eventually. Maybe one day he'll even laugh about it. Not today, though. "Apology accepted. Excuse me." But when he tries to go around him, John moves to block him.

"Wait, please," he says, one hand stretched out, beseeching. "Let me make it up to you. Buy you dinner, pay for your hotel. _Something_."

"I don't want anything from you," Cam says again, gritting his teeth. "It wasn't my intention to come across like a stalker, but I can see how it must have looked from your angle," he adds, as polite and precise as he can. He's willing to concede that he'd feel a bit paranoid too, if a stranger tracked him down in a city of 7.5 million people. "I took advantage of my security clearance to access your private information, which I shouldn't have done for a number of reasons. I'm sorry."

"Don't," says John, taking another step forward. "Don't apologise, I'm the one who--" He cuts off when Cam flinches back from his hand. "_Please_ don't," John whispers, pained.

Cam plants his feet on the sidewalk and squeezes his empty water bottle until the plastic cracks. "I didn't do it for some ulterior motive, okay?" he says, needing to be believed. "I just wanted to give back the photo."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John sighs, looking tired. "You were trying to do a nice thing. Most people wouldn't have even bothered." He steps out of the way, his eyes lingering on Cam's face. "I really am sorry, Colonel. You have no idea how much."

"It's fine," Cam says, and walks a wide arc around him to get into the hotel. "Enjoy your stay in London."


	2. Morning Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple hyacinths mean "please forgive me" in the language of flowers. Lavender roses mean "love at first sight".

John sends flowers, because eight years of marriage had taught him that's what he's supposed to do when he screws up. With his wife, he'd learned that an expensive gift and an abject apology were usually enough to buy forgiveness--right up until she divorced him. With Cameron, the chances of a teary reconciliation and passionate make-up sex are pretty much zilch, but it's not like flowers can make the situation any _worse_.

Early in the morning, with any luck early enough that Cameron hasn't already left for a day of sight-seeing, John goes to the florist across the street from Cameron's hotel. The proprietor, a middle-aged South Asian woman, takes pity on him and elicits enough information from him about Cameron to advise against the two dozen red roses John initially wanted to purchase.

"You've only met the bloke yesterday," she protests, shaking her head. "No, it's far too presumptuous. And it sounds to me you're more in need of forgiveness than a date."

John can hardly argue with that assessment, so he meekly accepts the bouquet of purple hyacinths. "If he throws them in my face, do I get a refund?" he jokes, fiddling with the pen as he tries to write an accompanying note.

"From what you tell me, he's more likely to donate them to the local children's hospital." She studies him for a moment, tapping her fingers against the glass counter. "You really fancy him, don't you?" When John shrugs and can't meet her eyes, she ducks into the back with a flap of her apron.

She returns with a tiny lavender rosebud that gets tucked into the hyacinth arrangement. "I've a soft spot for the romantically-challenged," she says, smile crooked. "Best of luck."

"Thanks," says John, gruff but grateful. With that bit of encouragement, he heads across the street to deliver his message.

At the front desk, the concierge helpfully points him in the direction of the hotel restaurant, which is currently serving breakfast. John finds Cameron at a small table against the far wall, and it hits him again--that this sweet, gorgeous guy had really liked him, wanted him, but that John had sabotaged any chance they might have had within minutes of meeting him.

John knows what his therapist would say if she knew.

There are two women sitting opposite Cameron, a blonde and a brunette, both pretty, mid-thirties, and clearly into Cameron. They're chatting--flirting--over their second cups of coffee, and John hesitates, not sure he wants to do this with an audience.

Too late. Cameron glances up and spots him, and even from this distance John can see the way his smile goes tight. When the women turn to look, John takes a deep breath and figures, hell, he deserves a little humiliation after yesterday. He goes over, doesn't try to sit down, just stands next to the table and offers the bouquet to Cameron. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I wanted another chance to apologise."

"You didn't have to do this," Cameron says, accepting the flowers with barely hidden reluctance. "I said it was fine."

"It's not fine." John can't accept the polite fiction, not when he screwed with the guy's head by almost screwing him, literally, in a public park. "What I did was really shitty. I wish there was some way I could make up for it." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the two women staring, voyeurs to their little drama, probably wondering why all the good ones are gay--at least that's what he hopes they're thinking, because John doesn't like the idea of Cameron flirting with them. Kind of hates it, in fact.

"I don't need you to do anything," says Cameron, tense. Shifting uncomfortably, he lays the flowers on the table and crosses his arms over his chest, everything about his body language screaming _stay away_. But there's a flare of interest in Cameron's blue eyes when John leans one hip against the table, and John clings to that, files it away as proof that the chemistry between them wasn't his imagination. "Look, the flowers are great and all," Cameron adds, "but I'd just like to pretend yesterday never happened."

"Right, sure, I get it," John quickly agrees. "How about we start over, okay? Hi, I'm John Sheppard." He sticks out a hand, holding his breath.

"Start over?" Cameron echoes, incredulous, looking from John's hand to his face. "Uh, yeah, no. Not a good idea."

John shoves his hand back in his pocket. "Give me a chance, here," he says, getting a little desperate. "I'm a pretty decent guy most of the time, I swear."

The blonde woman interrupts at this point. "Hey, buddy, take a hint," she says, her tone firm. "If the man says no, then it's no." She turns to Cameron, nudging his arm. "We'd better get going, Cam. The tour's in half an hour."

Checking his watch, Cameron nods. "Yeah, okay. Meet you guys in the lobby in five minutes?"

The two women stand up and go, the blonde giving John a warning glare as she passes, while the brunette sneaks him a sympathetic smile. Cameron stands as well, but slides out the other way, the table a solid barrier between him and John.

Damn it. John looks at him, grasping for a last-ditch persuasive argument that doesn't come. "At least keep the flowers," he says, finally. It really is a nice arrangement--it'd be a shame to waste it.

Cameron hesitates, but picks up the flowers. "Purple hyacinths."

"Yeah, uh, the lady at the flower shop says it means 'please forgive me'--something like that," he stammers. He waits, palms sweating, as Cameron gently touches the rosebud, scared that he's going to pull it out and hand it back. "Keep them," John says again, and it's an effort to keep his voice steady. "Please. I promise I won't bother you again."

There's the tiniest smile on Cameron's face when he looks up. "Yeah, okay, I'll keep them. It was a nice gesture, thanks." He stares at John for a moment, pale blue eyes softening a smidgen, but not enough, not nearly enough. "Bye, John."

John gives a half-hearted wave as Cameron walks out the door. "See you."

He wanders aimlessly around London after that, too depressed to be interested in sight-seeing, too restless to head back to his hotel room. He's been to London before, isn't really sure why he's here now and not surfing in Hawaii or, hell, sitting in his office at Sheppard Enterprises. The way he's going, his dad's going to have to fire him eventually, scion of the empire or not.

Heading north, away from the bustle of tourists, John eats up the blocks with a long stride, passing shops and offices and residential neighbourhoods, and by the time he stops walking, he's thoroughly lost. There's a pub kitty-corner from his position, though, and even knowing that drinking this early in the day is a stupid, unhealthy move, he goes in and sits down at a table.

What stops him from ordering a bottle of whisky and getting plastered is the British soldier in camouflage eating brunch with his parents. The kid's all baby face and peach fuzz, and John wonders whether he's still in training or being shipped out to Afghanistan. Wonders if he'll fly a chopper or drive a tank, if he'll get shot down or blown up or he'll make it home in one piece.

He wonders where Cameron is stationed, whether he's destined for the middle east after his vacation. Do colonels fight the insurgents themselves? Or do they stay in the base camp, where they're supposedly safe? Do they ever get killed in action? He's not sure he wants to know the answers to those questions.

So he orders coffee instead, and a turkey sandwich with havarti cheese, comfort food for him. Eating helps to ease the hollow feeling in his stomach, pushes back the dark edges, at least enough that he doesn't feel a need to make an emergency call to his therapist. Anyway, it's 3am in California.

After his sandwich, he considers calling for a cab, then realises the nearest Tube station is just around the corner, if he'd kept walking. He takes the stairs down into King's Cross, determined to head back to his hotel, pack his bags, and find some other city to haunt. Or perhaps not a city--he's sick of crowds, wouldn't mind a view of nothing but water and trees and fields and the occasional cow.

It's a shock, then, to run into Cameron on the platform. "What are you doing here?" he asks, stunned. They're pretty far from the usual tourist attractions.

Cameron looks equally bewildered. "I promised my nieces I'd take a picture of the Harry Potter trolley," he replies, shaking his head as though he's not quite sure John is real. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," John says, honest. "I started walking and ended up here."

For some reason, Cameron smiles a little at that. "Yeah? I just run."

John actually knows that, because yesterday he'd followed Cameron in a cab--like he was in a bad cop movie--as Cameron ran from Green Park back to his SoHo hotel, then watched from across the street as he came out again in shorts, obviously planning to run some more. The fact that Cameron seemed driven to get so far away from John, so fast, is what convinced John that he'd been sincere from the start--a realisation that came too late.

He looks around and realises Cameron is alone. "What happened to your friends?"

"They're meeting a friend of theirs at the British Library," he shrugs. "They--" The rest of the sentence is lost as the train screeches into the station. The commuters bunch and shift closer to the doors, waiting to get on, and Cameron glances at John uneasily when they get separated.

Passengers exit the train in a rush, and everyone on the platform tries to enter in an equal rush, and John reaches out and grabs Cameron's wrist and pulls him onto the train just before the doors close. "Thanks," Cameron says, breathless. "God, I hate subways."

"They're not that bad," says John, acutely aware of how much of Cameron is pressed up against him in the crowded car. "Better for the environment than everyone driving everywhere," he adds inanely. He's still got his fingers locked around Cameron's wrist, and he can feel his pulse hammering. Whoever is standing behind him keeps moving around and pushing John off balance. "Sorry," he mutters, trying to keep from falling into Cameron.

But Cameron's eyes are wide and dark, and he puts a hand on John's hip to hold him steady. "Shit," he whispers when a sudden jolt tips them against the door, John practically straddling his thigh. "You okay?" The hand on John's hip shifts around to the small of his back.

John's throat is dry, and it takes him a few tries to find enough saliva to speak. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, I'm good." There's a degree of privacy inherent to standing in a crowd, like a bubble of wilful blindness. John feels safe enough to let his gaze flicker down to Cameron's mouth, then glances back up to find Cameron staring at his own mouth. Taking a chance, he leans in and kisses him--a soft, restrained kiss that lingers but doesn't push for more. When he pulls back, Cameron lets out a shaky breath, lashes fluttering open. "Was that okay?" John asks, cautious, hopeful.

"I don't--" Cameron looks away, forehead wrinkling. "I'm not letting you do this again."

John ducks his head, tries to get Cameron to look at him. "I'm not playing with you, I swear," he tells him, his voice low but fierce. "Cameron, please."

His name gets Cameron to turn back, wary, his jaw clenched. "The way I figure it, what you did yesterday says more about you than it does about me."

"You think I don't know that?" John laughs bleakly. "Trust me, there's a reason my therapist can afford to send her kid to an Ivy League college." He finds purchase against the door and gives Cameron a couple inches of space. "I like you, okay?" He meets his eyes and refuses to flinch away from the doubt he sees there. "I _like_ you, Cameron, and I screwed up before I even knew your name."

"And, what, you want to start over? Just like that?" Cameron's words are harsh, but his hand is still resting low on John's back, holding him close, and there's a hint of pleading in his tone. "I don't think I can do that, John."

"Give me a chance, please," John whispers, touching his fingertips to Cameron's cheek. There's a creeping awareness of just how far gone he is, begging a man he's known for less than 24 hours for a do-over, but it's not like he's cared about pride or appearances since his divorce. "One date. Anywhere you want to go."

Biting his lip, Cameron finally nods. "Paris. I'll be there August 14th."

"That's next week," says John, not protesting, exactly.

Cameron shifts his gaze over John's shoulder. "If that doesn't fit with your travel plans--"

"No, I'll be there," John hurries to agree. "I'll be there. Which hotel are you staying at?"

But Cameron shakes his head. "I'll call you," he demurs, and yes, John had written his cell phone number in the note that accompanied the flowers. It's risky and one-sided, but a hell of a lot more than he could have hoped for five minutes ago. "John, I'm going to get off at the next stop, okay? I want to run home, clear my head."

Not sure how to get him to stay, John cups the nape of his neck and kisses him, messy and desperate. "You'll call me, right?" He kisses him again. "_Cameron_."

Cameron's breathing hard when the train screeches to a halt at Warren Street station. "Cam. My friends call me Cam," he says in a rush, fumbling the door open. "I'll call you." He steps off the train and gets caught up in the flow of bodies, disappearing quickly from view, and John watches him go, holding onto that promise.


End file.
